


Cardiology

by Calacirya11



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, HP: EWE, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 07:37:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8277938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacirya11/pseuds/Calacirya11
Summary: Hermione Granger loves puzzles, and Healing seemed an obvious career choice when she lost her taste for politics. The troubles of post-War Magical Britain invade St. Mungo's when pureblood children begin falling victim to a mysterious illness, and poison seems the only possible culprit. Hermione  is forced to team with Draco Malfoy, her current coworker and former enemy to figure out the source of the poison as tensions between the new Wizarding government and the old pureblood guard reach the boiling point.





	1. Emesis Emeritus

Hermione Granger, heroine of the War, valedictorian of the 2007 Healing program at St. Mungo’s, darling of the wizarding world and the brightest witch of her age, was currently covered in vomit. Covered was perhaps an exaggeration, it was really a rather small spot on her robes. It was still vomit, though, and she felt entitled to a little exaggeration. 

“It’s quite alright, Mr. Cantor,” she assured the wizened old man on the bed in front of her, with a patience she did not quite feel. “Vomiting is a very common side effect of that substance. We’ll have this cleaned up in a moment, and you can tell me more about how you came to swallow it.” 

“Well, you see, it were my nephew who brought it to the house…”

Later that afternoon, after several more accidental ingestions and one Potions accident, Hermione retreated to her office to finish her paperwork and look over some promising research a colleague in France had sent to the clinic. Healing was not exactly glamorous, but it was also rarely boring. Hermione had chosen the career after the War, having had quite enough of politics in the brief period following the Battle of Hogwarts when her opinion was sought in the peace talks held between those who had fought against the Death Eaters and were determined that a new world of equality be born from the ashes of Voldemort’s reign, and those purebloods who had not been supporters of Voldemort but were nevertheless not supporters of radical changes in Wizarding politics. Hermione had been younger then, fiery with righteous anger and a passionate supporter of justice. She had lost friends, people she had loved, in the battle against hatred and bigotry, and she wanted to see those beliefs stamped out forever.  
She found quickly what she ought to have known from her failed campaigns against house elf mistreatment: most people were anxious to return to the status quo, and with that anxiety came a willingness to make concessions. Hermione had argued that all magical creatures ought to be afforded equal rights, and was given condescending smiles and a reassurance that such things might be worked out “a bit later, when things are more settled.” She had tried and failed to establish InterHouse Unity committees at Hogwarts, reasoning that better understanding of each other might quell some of the anger that lay between Slytherin and the other houses. She sat unbelieving as the Malfoy family purchased amnesty with their significant Gringotts account and retired quietly to the country, as Harry leaned over and whispered “She saved my life, Hermione, and they left the battle, we can’t kill everyone who was a Death Eater, they’ve given the Ministry nearly everything, it has to be enough.” In the months following the War, all but the most egregious families with Death Eater ties were forced to pay enormous reparations, a compromise which led to simmering resentment on both sides. Some on the side of the Light felt the punishments were too lenient, and those on the Dark whose ties to Voldemort had been weak were still bankrupted by the fines. It was a tenuous peace, and inertia had been all that held shell-shocked magical Britain together at first. Eventually, tensions had eased, but not before the bitter taste in Hermione’s mouth soured her on her Ministry aspirations. It was clear that a career in politics meant a life of distasteful compromise, of smiling when she felt like screaming, of trying to shake hands with adders.  
Harry and Ron had been surprised, when she announced her decision to apply for the Healing program at St. Mungo’s. They remembered her S.P.E.W. days, had joked amongst themselves about how it would be nice to be old friends with the Minister of Magic one day. The War had changed them all though, and they understood her reasons. Healing was a difficult and intensive course of study, and she’d always excelled in school. Symptoms were pieces of a puzzle that could be assembled into a diagnosis if one knew what to look for, and Hermione loved puzzles. She could make a difference as a Healer. Ron had joked that he’d seen the Muggle nurse costumes, and he thought it was a good look, and they’d all laughed. Despite the frustrations wrought by the peace accords, and sorrow at their lost friends and family, they had still at times been giddy with their success, disbelief at their survival coursing through their veins like champagne. 

The trauma of the war had wrought subtle changes in them all. Harry was harder, tempered by his brush with death. The last vestiges of the boy he had been were worn away in the harrowing aftermath of the war, when he had stepped up to be the figurehead of the Light the Ministry had always wanted. He hid uncertainty behind grim determination, announcing his intention to join the Aurors as though it had ever been in doubt, vowing to give his life to eliminating forces of Dark magic. Hermione missed the boy he had been at times. The darker, more certain Harry was less fun to be around, though she supposed it was a necessary evil. Voldemort had killed the boy, and the man had been born.  
Ron had gone the opposite way, taking refuge in humor as he always had. He had gone to work alongside George at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, a business which grew exponentially as the magical world sought refuge from the stresses of postwar life. They had satellite shops in several countries now, and Ron traveled between them. He sent her postcards from his business trips, and it reminded her of Sirius’ letters when she opened her window to the knock of a colorful tropical bird. Their romance had quietly evaporated in the year after the war, the promise of the kiss outside the Room of Requirement cooling into a mutual decision to leave off as friends. Hermione regretted it at times, as she read his cards from exotic locales in her lonely bed, exhausted from her shift at the hospital, but mostly she was content. Ron was a good man, a brave man. He deserved a woman who would love him for that, and not wish silently for someone who could debate about History of Magic with her, or who could argue the meanings of Ancient Runes. She had cried on Ginny’s bed when they ended things, feeling guilty for not loving Ginny’s brother as she should, and Ginny had patted her back and told her to stop being silly. “Ron’s a good catch, Hermione, but we all know he’s not the one for you.” 

The Golden Trio, as the Daily Prophet persisted in calling them, met often for dinner or drinks, but in the way of adulthood they couldn’t meet as often as they might have liked. Between Ron’s travels and the erratic shifts of the Auror department and the 24 hour on-call shifts of Hermione’s Healer training there was never enough time. Hermione spent more of her time with her fellow Healers, the trials of their schooling and then the stresses of the hospital binding them together like a fractious, unlikely family. 

“Good evening, Professor Puking,” called a voice as she reached the suite of offices in the back of the Poisons and Potions wing. 

“Hello, Nikolai,” she called back, stopping at the dark haired wizard’s door. Nikolai Larsen was a tall, weedy young man with an indefatigable sense of humor, which was usually directed at his colleagues, and behind closed doors, at his patients. “You know, when I started Healer training, everyone warned me there’d be lots of bodily fluids, and I kind of thought they were overstating the problem. I’m not usually so wrong.”

“Well, you do try to see the best in situations, so I’m not surprised that you failed to heed the advice of the multitudes,” mused Nikolai, leaning back in his chair and twirling his quill between his fingers. “How many is that this month?”

“Just the once, for January,” Hermione looked at the stack of case reports on Nikolai’s desk. “How’s the Intensive Unit treating you?” 

“Oh you know, we mostly keep them knocked out, so the vomit’s not so common. Draco had a sad case the other day, little boy with some strange symptoms. Came in with mouth sores and wasn’t making any blood cells, and we couldn’t determine why. The patient didn’t make it, and you know Malfoy. He doesn’t talk, but you know he blames himself even though we all know sometimes there’s nothing you can do.” Nikolai frowned, looking far away for a moment before smiling again at Hermione. “You ought to join us, oh brilliant diagnostician. We could use a mystery-solver over on the ward.”

“It’s not usually a mystery. Talk to them long enough and most patients recall eating something after brewing something with doxy venom and forgetting to wash their hands, or they tell you their nephew likes to sample international ales purchased from Knockturn Alley… it’s not so hard.”

“Alright, be modest then. You’ve quite turned them on their heads over there, what with your algorithms and flowcharts and ‘scientific method.’ Next thing you know you’ll be Director of Healing and we’ll all be kissing your high heels.” Hermione gave a little bow at that, and Nikolai blew her a kiss. “Will you come have dinner soon with Catherine and me?” he asked, settling back over his paperwork. “She mentioned this morning that she hasn’t seen you recently.” 

“Sure, just let me know a day that works,” Hermione said, “I’ve got some things to catch up on, I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“I’ll be here bright and early, dear.” 

Hermione turned to her own office and closed the door. She cast a Muffliato over the door, knowing that the other Healers changing shifts would create a distracting buzz of conversation. Sinking into her cushioned chair, she surveyed the case notes piled on the desk. She sighed and pulled the first from the pile, reading the halting script of the second year student who had written it. Making a few corrections, she proceeded through the pile and thought about the day, musing that what she had said to Nikolai had only been half true. Her algorithms had expedited the diagnosis of most common poisonings, but there was still the occasional mystery. She thought of the case he had mentioned, the little boy Malfoy had cared for. She had worked alongside Malfoy for years now, but they rarely spoke. He kept to himself, though by all accounts he was a talented Healer. It wasn’t a career Hermione would have guessed for him. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t a career most would have guessed for her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione meets with old friends

“Hello, Titus,” Hermione sang, opening the door to her flat. A pair of yellow eyes regarded her from the bench under the window where the scrawny black cat liked to lounge. Hermione had walked home from the hospital, enjoying the coldness of the January air on her face after the long day cooped up on the ward. London was dirty and bustling, but she liked the liveliness and it distracted her from her thoughts, which lingered on Nikolai’s story about Malfoy’s patient. She hated when she lost a patient, and nothing was worse than losing children. She sympathized with Malfoy, as she supposed even utter bastards must occasionally feel the despondency that came from failing to save a patient. 

Titus leapt silently from his perch to investigate her arrival, distracting her from her thoughts. She reached down to scratch his ears and he tolerated her ministrations for a moment before waltzing into the kitchen and mewing pathetically. “In a moment,” she said, smiling. Hermione might be in charge at work, but Titus ruled the flat. As Hermione shed her heavy winter coat and crossed the room to the refrigerator to dispense dinner to Titus, she paused to check her email. Computers were useless in heavily magic areas, but her laptop worked fine in her flat. Ron would be in town tomorrow, and he had been pestering her and Harry to meet him for dinner. Sure enough, she had an email from Ron and one from Harry, both of whom agreed that they could meet in Diagon Alley, if Hermione could tear herself away from the ward. 

Hermione heated a can of soup on the stove and returned to the laptop to respond. She had a bit more free time now that she had been out of training for a few years, and her long hours were more by choice than requirement. She enjoyed her work, and had been assigned students in the fall and that had added to her workload. She typed a quick response to the boys that yes, tomorrow would work, and she hoped that Harry would bring Ginny along. It would be something to look forward to, Fridays at St. Mungo’s were always insane.   
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

After a typical Friday, which involved the usual gamut of patients as well as an emergency transport from the Hogwarts infirmary who had swallowed an out of date love potion mixed in his pumpkin juice and suffered from a rather severe bout of low blood pressure. Hermione had sent him to Nikolai in the Intensive Unit overnight for closer monitoring, after reassuring his parents that she was just being cautious, and their son was likely to make a full recovery. She was still talking with Nikolai when the night shift arrived, and with them Draco Malfoy. Nikolai waved him over, and he headed there way with a cautious expression. 

“Granger,“ Malfoy nodded at her, then turned to Nikolai, “Anything unusual?” 

Nikolai shook his head, “Mostly the usual, and an unfortunate fellow from your and Miss Granger’s old stomping grounds. He’ll be avoiding the pumpkin juice from now on, I’d imagine.” 

“What a pity,” Draco rolled his eyes and looked at Hermione. “Seems like he’d be one of yours, Granger, was it really so bad as to require our services?” 

“Well, when he arrived his pressures were 65/30 and dropping and it took some work to stabilize him. We might have handled it, but I thought closer monitoring wouldn’t go amiss,” she said with some asperity, piqued that he should think she couldn’t manage the case on her ward. 

“Relax, Granger. I’m only joking. You can send us anyone you want, you’re hardly one to abuse the privilege.” Malfoy leaned against the desk, hands in the pockets of his robes as he surveyed the monitors. “Seems he’s doing better now.” 

Nikolai was chuckling at her side. “Draco Malfoy making a joke? Is it a full moon?”

“It is not.” The blond wizard pulled a quill from his pocket and began making notes on the clipboard he carried. “I try to schedule myself off for full moon nights, both to avoid the weeping from the Dai Llewellyn ward and to enhance my own personal mystique.” Hermione smiled before she remembered this was Draco Malfoy and she was not about to get all cozy with a war criminal, no matter how devoted to the Healing arts he was purported to be. “Er, Nikolai, sorry to run but I’ve got dinner plans.” 

“No rest for the weary, eh, Granger? Give the Chosen One my love!” Nikolai clasped her lightly on the shoulder as she turned to the door. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Malfoy roll his eyes at Nikolai, or perhaps at the mention of Harry. Hardly a shocking response to either, she supposed. Catching sight of the clock, she hurried her steps. She was already late.   
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
She saw Ginny’s long cinnamon hair first, at a booth in the corner. She was sitting opposite Harry, which Hermione appreciated, as it meant she wouldn’t have to sit next to Ron and recreate the double dates they had all once shared. Ron himself was nowhere to be seen, so perhaps she wouldn’t be the last one to arrive. Hermione slid into the booth beside Ginny and hugged her clumsily. “How are the little Potters?” she asked, smiling across the table at Harry. 

“Exhausting,” answered Ginny, sipping theatrically from her wine glass. “Albus hasn’t been sleeping well, and I was just about to call you, thinking he’s sick, when Harry catches James talking to him about how toys come alive when he sleeps, and that if he just tried harder to stay awake he would surely catch them… Children are a joy, Hermione, please have some as soon as possible so you can commiserate.” Ginny’s hazel eyes danced with mischief. “But tell us all about the handsome Healers you consult with.” 

“Oh, let her be, Gin,” Harry said, his words softened by the look in his eyes as he gazed across the table at his wife. Hermione realized they probably hadn’t had much time to themselves recently, and made a mental note to make her excuses early. Molly probably had insisted she have the children all night, and Hermione might be single but she wasn’t blind. Harry tore his eyes from Ginny and she noted the fatigue in his green eyes. “How have you been, Harry?” she asked, cursing herself for not checking up on current events before she came today. She tried to keep up with things, but her work at the hospital often left her too exhausted to feel like reading the news. 

“The usual. There’ve been some rather testy demonstrations recently, people who feel that the former Death Eaters ought to have done more prison time, and the goblins are agitating for wands again and their methods leave a little to be desired.” 

Hermione sipped her water. “Maybe the Death Eaters should have done more prison time.” 

“I know how you feel, Hermione, and it’s not that I don’t agree, but the money from those reparations has been unbelievably helpful in the reconstruction efforts. We spent a lot on helping the Muggles rebuild, and the payments to those wounded in the Last Battle… in the end, I think the money helped more than the principle of jailing them would have.” Catching her expression, Harry sighed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he often did when he was stressed. “I wish it were simpler.” 

Ginny rapped her knuckles on the table. “You know, my mother had a rule about politics at the dinner table…” 

“Ginny’s right. I’m sorry, Harry. Has anyone heard from Ron?” she asked, in an effort to reestablish neutral ground. 

“Asking for me, ‘Mione?” said a voice behind her, and she started as Ron bent to kiss her cheek before reaching across the table to shake Harry’s hand. As he sat down, his leg brushed against hers under the table and she shifted slightly to accommodate his gangly frame. Now rather more freckly from his recent merchandise scouting trips in the Caribbean, Ron Weasley nevertheless had a homely charm. A waitress materialized as soon as he was seated, and smiling brightly asked if their party was complete. “He’s the last,” Ginny said, shooting Ron a glare. “He runs on his own time zone, does Ron.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Ron protested. “International apparition is a hassle, you ought to remember from your sporting days.” 

The waitress waited patiently for the table to decide on orders, and vanished as effortlessly as she appeared. 

“Good service, that,” noted Ron, eyeing the waitress’ retreating form appreciatively. 

“Yes, well, we can hardly go anywhere where they’re less accommodating, given the punctuality of some party members and the… prominence of others,” Ginny said. 

“I’d say the entire table is rather prominent, Gin,” Ron chuckled, “We’ve got the ‘Chosen One,’ the brightest witch of our age, and I’m a rather well-known businessman. And even you played Quidditch for a bit, a few years ago.” 

Ginny pursed her lips, choosing to ignore the jab. “Have you seen Bill and Fleur recently? We haven’t seen them since Christmas at Mum’s.” 

Ron shook his head. “No, and I’ve been meaning to ask Bill about some cursed inventory we picked up in Tibet. Can’t sell something until we’ve had it inspected to make sure it’s not too dangerous, and he’s not likely to give anything away to the competition.” 

Hermione began to relax as the conversation drifted into familiar patterns, Ron and Ginny bickering fondly, until they finished dinner. As they waited for coffee, the talk turned to reminiscence about Hogwarts as it always did. 

“Hermione, do you remember Lucian Bole? He was on the Slytherin Quidditch team, a few years ahead of us, he went on the play for the Cannons?”   
“No,” Hermione said, “but I don’t really follow Quidditch much.”

“Understatement of the year,” Ron stage whispered to Harry, who grinned. 

“Well, it’s actually quite sad. His little girl died last week, Angelina told me about it. Apparently she got some mysterious illness and they couldn’t save her.”

“I think I might have heard something about that,” Hermione said, her voice steady. Her friends asked her about important deaths from time to time, though she could rarely do more than say she knew of the death. She wasn’t sure that Bole’s little girl had made the papers, but assumed this was the death Nikolai had spoken of. Uncomfortable for Draco, to treat a former teammate’s child. The wizarding world was small that way though, and it could hardly be avoided. 

“That’s too bad. The Boles have had a hard time, since the war,” Harry said. “Lucian’s father was a closet supporter of Voldemort, and once that came to be common knowledge he lost a lot of respect. He worked in Magical Law Enforcement, had a desk job, and it came out that he’d been doctoring reports on Death Eater activities. He died not long after the losing his position. I don’t think Lucian was involved with the Death Eaters, though.” 

“It’s just hard to imagine. I don’t know what I would do,” said Ginny, and Hermione squeezed her hand. “It’s very uncommon for that sort of thing to happen. We get better all the time at treating things, even conditions we couldn’t treat twenty years ago. Try not to worry,” she reassured her, willing herself to believe the words. They could treat many things, it was true, but Hermione knew better than most that they were still far from miracle workers. The burden of her knowledge wasn’t any lighter for laying it on her friends, though, and Ginny looked grateful for her words. Hermione shifted her bag to her shoulder, and Ron groaned. “Calling it a night already, ‘Mione?” 

“Some of us have jobs that keep track of when we arrive in the morning, Ron,” she said, rising from the table. “I’ve got to be there early to check on a patient I sent to the Intensive Ward overnight, and it’s been a long week.” She rose from the table as Ginny and Harry said their goodbyes, both of them looking simultaneously sorry to see her leave and grateful for the early end to the evening. Not having children herself, she wasn’t sure whether they were anticipating the alone time or the extra sleep. Ron stood to give her a hug, and as he released her she saw Harry eyeing them appraisingly. Hermione raised an eyebrow back at him, and he blinked, uncertain. She and Ron weren’t going to happen, no matter how convenient Harry might find it. No amount of meaningful glances would convince her that Ron was the one for her, and judging by Ron’s engaging smiles at the waitress, she thought he felt the same. 

Hermione waved at the table and headed for the door, already bracing herself against the winter night. She hoped the young love potion sufferer was doing well. She could do with some good news.


End file.
